


Itineraries

by etothey



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Gen, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 19:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etothey/pseuds/etothey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley, Cordelia, library demons, shanshu, and the good fight.  AU with divergences starting around "Blind Date": what if Angel went back after Lindsey, and disappeared?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Itineraries

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Minnow and Cofax for the beta.

Wesley came into the apartment at two in the morning. Cordelia roused when she heard the teacup land on the kitchen table with a soft but definite clink. She slept lightly now. She sat up on the couch and said, sleep-blurred, "Any luck tonight, Inspector Gadget?" 

Wesley's bag o' Rogue Demon Hunter was only a little gore-stained. "Anything on the phone?" he retorted, easing himself into a chair with nary a missed move. Wesley rarely tripped these days. 

The milk and sugar flew through the air to land next to Wesley after he had already taken his first sip. Maybe ghosts got sleepy, too. 

"Thank you, Dennis," Wesley said, availing himself of both. "I take it the answer is no." 

"Just once I'd like to hear a 'maybe,'" she said. Her voice was sharpening. Well, let it. "Or a 'come back tomorrow,' or 'it's in the mail.' A nice 'we'll FedEx this for you for free and we're sorry for the glitch.'" 

Wesley's mouth twitched. "He wouldn't fit in a Federal Express--" He stopped. Tea spilled into the saucer and over the tablecloth. "Unless." 

* 

Lindsey isn't with you? they had asked him when he returned, tie out of place, scroll in hand. 

Let him come if he's coming, he had said. And stopped. Lindsey must have been trapped when I set off the alarm. 

And tossed the scroll at Wesley. I'm going back in. 

They didn't argue. 

He didn't come back. 

* 

Whenever Cordelia grew bored of invoices, which wasn't often, she stood in front of Wesley's weapons cabinet. The thing was downright ugly, but it had been affordable during lean times. She never seemed to get around to suggesting that replacing it with something tasteful in teak might be a good idea now that they were more than meeting operating expenses. Besides, Dennis liked it. It never needed dusting. 

She opened the cabinet and counted. She had the contents memorized. Wesley had all but duplicated the old arrangement, in that cabinet in a basement that had been blown to ash and rubble. Come to that, Wesley was becoming as handy with an axe as she was with a sword, the nights he needed her for backup, the nights she needed him. 

Cordelia couldn't remember when she stopped checking the old neighborhood's property values every week. 

* 

Cordelia spent the next day with a middle-aged professor who was convinced that Something Evil had escaped from his rare edition of The King in Yellow. It took an hour to get a coherent account out of him and another hour to calm him down when she said she'd get the Cliff Notes. 

"Sheesh," she had told Wesley, "you'd think I'd endorsed plagiarism and fixing your SAT score results." 

"You could simply have asked me about the book," Wesley said with a hint of exasperation. Or condescension. Like she'd had nothing better to do with her formative years. 

They decided axe and sword and poultry herbs were the way to go for this one. Cordelia couldn't decide between four pairs of depressingly sensible shoes. She kept buying more in hopes of hitting on something that wasn't irredeemably ugly. 

"This isn't a fashion show, Cordelia." 

"Says the man who wears the same tie four days running." 

"I'm not wearing one now." Which was true. Wesley swept up a pair of shoes--the ugliest ones, just to spite her, she was sure--and thrust them at her. 

They took the car partway and made it into the sewers with practiced ease. "I can't believe I'm used to the smell," Cordelia said, not-so- _sotto voce_. She wasn't used to the sword's weight underneath her depressingly sensible coat. She wasn't used to a lot of things. 

Wesley held his hand up. "The smell." 

She wrinkled her nose. "As I was saying, Sherlock, if you weren't paying--" She sniffed again. "It's the Sunnydale school library." The must of aging, improbably preserved paper, and inks of unknown provenance. The smell of shadows between yellowing pages. It was making her nostalgic. 

Then came the rustle of wings--of pages--and a swarm of silverfish. Cordelia couldn't help it. She stomped and stomped and brushed them off her legs frantically. "What is it with me and bugs?" 

"Cordelia!" 

"This place is diseased," she snapped, deciding she had planned to take a comprehensive hot bath anyway. She drew her sword but couldn't stop twitching at the tiny insect feet-- 

The--creature--stampeded them in a cloud of choking dust. It was made of coffee-stained pages and bent spines, crumpled sticky notes and highlighted syllabuses. Her sword-stroke went through it without doing appreciable damage. It was like slicing through air. 

She was, however, going to treasure the undiluted horror on Wesley's face for the rest of her life. 

"It's infected the _books_ ," Wesley said while batting at the creature with the flat of his axe. "Fire!" 

"Like a gun is going to do any--" Oh. Not that kind of fire. She was noticing that the paper had teeth, like paper cuts that cut bone-deep. "You didn't say to pack a flamethr--" And if it liked assimilating coffee stains, she bet water wouldn't faze it, either. 

They retreated step by step. The crunch of silverfish underfoot was barely audible beneath the rustling. 

"Your sword," Wesley said urgently. 

"What? You _have_ a weapon, you moron!" 

"Swing your sword!" And he swung at her. 

Okay, she'd known that the man loved his books, but--she blocked instinctively. 

A spark sputtered at the point of impact. 

Okay, the man also knew what he was doing. Sometimes. 

It was hard to throw the world's worst stagefight while your coat and legs were covered by ever more vicious slices. The screech of metal on metal grew unbearable. But the sparks became brighter, and the pages flared alight. 

They ran, wordless in their agreement, before the whole thing went up in fire and an explosion of smoke. 

* 

"My edge is chipped and I'm going to have those scars for life," Cordelia said as she limped toward the door, "and you get to do the whetstone work." 

"There are plenty of other swords," Wesley said, uncharacteristically. 

Tea and coffee awaited them inside. "Thanks, Dennis," said Cordelia. "You didn't water down the coffee again." 

The coffee mug shook no, a little reprovingly; the coffee almost sloshed over the edge. 

"I had to ask." 

"The answering machine," Wesley said. 

"Do it yourself," Cordelia said while she went for the hydrogen peroxide. "It's probably another bored socialite who thinks her dog is having fits because of her latest seance. Or what was it, Mercury is in the ascendant in the House of the Rising--" 

Wesley had pressed the button. 

"--only in L.A. for a couple days before I have to fly back," the voice was saying. A crackle of static; they needed new tapes. "--deal with odd things? I'm Lindgren McDougal. I guess I'll stop by tomorrow." 

"Sounds like Lindsey," Cordelia said, "except not." Familiar without being familiar. 

Wesley downed the last of his tea as though it were liquor. He had been doing that lately. Apparently she didn't count as Society anymore. Sometimes she admitted to herself that she liked that. 

"Lindgren?" said Wesley. "I suppose there's--" 

"No, the accent," she said impatiently. "Like from Tennessee or whatever hick state. You think he's from out there?" 

Wesley put the cup and saucer in the sink, then slumped into the couch. "We'll find out tomorrow." He turned his face away from her. 

* 

A week after _he_ failed to return, Lindsey McDonald was listed officially missing, along with Lee Mercer. Maybe it was just as well. 

* 

Cordelia had bullied the landlady into giving them an extra parking spot. The car pulling in looked, frankly, beat up, but business was business. 

She had never realized how much care he had lavished on that damn convertible until they were stuck with its maintenance. 

"Baseball cap," she reported. Well, it was sunny out. "Notre Dame. It figures." 

Wesley, who was putting away the groceries with the grim determination of a man who remembered being a full-time bachelor, said, "Well, if he flew out here, he can afford to waste our time." 

She raised her eyebrows. "Now _that's_ mercenary," she said, with approval. 

There came the expected knock on the door. "Come in," Wesley said. Dennis unlocked the door. Cordelia had her hand near a crossbow, just in case. They'd learned. 

The door opened. Baseball cap, T-shirt, backpack, jeans. College kid, tanned, couldn't be older than nineteen, and-- 

"Angel?" Cordelia said blankly, crossbow forgotten. 

He glanced over his shoulder as though expecting someone else. "Ma'am?" he said, Tennessee-or-wherever drawl and all. He took off his baseball cap. Neatly cut hair, everything in place. "It's Lindgren McDougal. You're Angel Investigations?" 

Wesley looked as dazed as Cordelia felt--Angel, with good hair? He cleared his throat. "Have a seat, please. Tea? Coffee?" 

"Diet Pepsi?" Cordelia said brightly. 

"Pepsi," he said. 

Well, after a couple centuries of the second-most boring diet in history...She set the can in front of him. "What's the trouble, Mr. McDougal?" 

He popped the tab open and drank. "Just Doug." 

She suppressed her flinch. Barely. Of all the names, _Doug_? 

"Something happened in my dorm over the weekend and it's not the kind of thing campus security was gonna believe," he said. 

His face was so open it hurt. Wesley had put on his best proper British face. She settled for encouragingly inquiring. 

He hesitated. "These people--a woman and a man, I guess--broke in and I swear, there was something about their faces, and they had _fangs_." 

"And you're still alive," said Wesley. 

"It got weirder," he said. "My roommate's the one who does judo or whatever, but I grabbed a pencil and went after them, I don't know what made me do it--" 

"A pencil?" said Wesley, a muscle jumping in his jaw. 

"Yeah, a mechanical pencil. My roommate's an engineer. It's all he'll write with. Anyway, it sort of gets fuzzy after that. They busted a chair--" 

"A chair?" said Wesley. 

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Sorry, he hasn't had his afternoon caffeine yet." 

"Rickety old wooden thing that we appropriated from the lounge downstairs. It wasn't like anyone else was using it." He looked at them, a little bemused. "And they _exploded_ into dust, poof. I think the guys next door thought I was sloshed or something." 

Cordelia decided it was her turn to ask a question, especially if _Wesley_ was becoming monosyllabic. "Do you remember anything else funny? Anything? Anywhere? Anytime? You're, what, a freshman?" 

"Sophomore," he said. 

"And you've never seen anything like this before." Maybe she was hallucinating all this. It wouldn't be the weirdest vision she'd ever had, except it would. 

He looked down, and for the first time, he looked like Angel, really looked like him, awkward and ill at ease from bone to skin. Other than being garrulous. "I--I don't know. Look, I shouldn't be here. My guardian doesn't like L.A. My mother"--he stumbled on the word--"died here." 

Wesley and Cordelia exchanged looks. 

"My condolences," Wesley said. "Was there anything about those circumstances that struck you as--" 

"I don't remember it real well," he said. "There was an accident. There was a box. I remember hearing her call out, or scream, and--" He swallowed. "There was dust. And it's all blurry. I don't see how this would have anything to do with--" 

"Any clue might be important," Cordelia said, summoning up her best professional demeanor. "Oh. Right. Why did you come here? How did you find out about us?" She figured a little follow-up on the word-of-mouth couldn't do any harm. 

"Lindsey's--" 

Lindsey. 

"--wallet had this." He fished in his pocket and handed her a business card. The old one. "I don't know. I filched it ages ago, don't remember why." Like the prophecy. "And it felt right to come here." 

"Excuse me," she said. "My colleague and I need to confer." 

"Sure," he said, looking puzzled. 

Cordelia couldn't grab Wesley's arm fast enough as they escaped into the bedroom. Let Angel-Doug-whoever think what he wanted to think. 

* 

"It's him," she said in a low, fierce whisper. "The whole scrimshaw thing. It's gotta be." 

"Shanshu," Wesley said. 

"Whatever." 

"And with Lindsey," Wesley said. He took off his glasses and stared at the wall. "And little, if any, memory. Although his accent is slipping; you noticed? The box, though--" 

"Screw the box. Remember the Ethros? We know boxes are just bad news. Now what's this about his mother? Isn't she, like, seriously dead?" 

"Yes," he said after a pause. "And I believe his sire is, too. Darla. That's assuming his memory is accurate." 

"How can he be Lindsey's ward and not remember _us_?" 

"I don't know." 

"And still fight vampires?" 

"I don't know. 

"And have a _tan_?" 

"I don't know!" 

They stared at each other. 

Cordelia resisted the urge to throw something. 

"The only one who can tell us what's going on," said Wesley, "is Lindsey." 

"Fine," she said. "What do we tell _him_ out there?" 

"What we can," said Wesley. "What we can." 

* 

"D-Doug," Cordelia said, "do you believe in creatures of the night?" 

He blinked. "Creatures of the what?" 

"Vampires," Wesley said flatly. "Fire, beheading, stake through the heart. Among other methods. You were fortunate to have survived." 

"Well," he said, "I asked. Okay. Now what? Why come after me? I'm not even into the Goth scene." 

Cordelia would have given anything, right then, to see that face go dead and unexpressive, and hated herself for it. 

"Mr. McDougal," said Wesley--Coward, thought Cordelia, you won't say it--"I think Mr. McDonald may have answers." 

"I never mentioned his last name," he said. "You guys know each other?" He was starting to look suspicious. 

"We go back," Cordelia said, with delicate irony. "Old days in L.A. What's his relationship to you?" 

"Friend of the family." he said. 

Cordelia's face felt like it was about to crumple. Iron control, she told herself. Iron will. Iron. 

"You think he knows something," he said. 

"I think," Wesley said, "that we know why the vampires were after you, but Mr. McDonald knows why you survived." 

"He'll kill me for coming out here without telling him. I just blew my spring break money." 

"Don't worry," Cordelia said sweetly, "we won't let him kill you. Now, what's his phone number?" 

"Look, I don't know if this is a--" 

"We'll handle it," she said. 

* 

The home number and the office number only got her an answering machine and voicemail. "Cellphone," Cordelia said. "Give." 

Wesley was showing him the weapons cabinet, which had thus far elicited admiration but no sign of recognition. 

"You really don't have to--" 

"Give," Cordelia said. "I'm sure you're a very giving person." 

He caved. 

Click on the other end: "Lindsey McDonald, and this had better be important." Same accent, all right. 

"Angel Investigations," Cordelia said warningly. 

"I thought he'd be there." 

"Yeah, and you better have some answers, mister." 

"I'm at cruising altitude into Detroit and the flight attendant is coming after me," Lindsey said. "Look, it'd really be better for everyone concerned if we picked some midway point--" 

"--outside the City of? Like where, Pasadena?" 

"Vegas," said Lindsey. "The Grand Red. You'll know where to find me. Ten hours, and you better hope your line's not tapped." 

"It's your wallet," said Cordelia, and hung up. "Vegas." 

"Vegas," Wesley said in a martyred voice. 

"I don't think my car's going to last," Angel-Doug said, sounding disappointed. 

"Oh, that won't be a problem," Cordelia said. She rapped under the table to tell Dennis to pack his ghostly self. "But you're driving anyway." 

* 

Cordelia was gratified that he still knew his way around the convertible. 

* 

Cordelia gritted her teeth at the per-night room charges, and she didn't like the speculative glances their sophomore was giving the slot machines, but she figured she'd squeeze expenses out of Lindsey if she had to. Lindsey. Guardian. _Doug._ Her brain was never going to add it all up. 

"I suppose we wait," Wesley said to her. They were hovering over Angel, by reflex. "I wonder what he does now?" 

"Something lucrative if he's buying cross-country plane tickets on a moment's notice," Cordelia said. "How do you think he found out about, well, here?" 

Wesley gave her a wry look. "I'm sure he still has his sources." 

"I bet," Cordelia said, thinking she might squeeze some of those out of Lindsey, too. She nudged Angel-Doug. "Hey, what do you major in anyway?" Just curiosity, she told herself. 

"Art history," he said. 

That made a perverse amount of sense. "Yeah? Who's your favorite artist?" 

His eyes flicked sideways: another Angel-ism. Good, good. "I would have said Renoir, but you know what? I'm starting to appreciate Salvador Dali. Not to mention..." 

Cordelia was almost sorry she'd asked, except he sounded so _happy_. Without sounding unhappy about being happy. 

It took her a moment to recognize Lindsey approaching them. Not at all shabby--she did approve of taste in clothing--but casual. Definitely casual. More of a swing in his walk. And Angel's reaction, mixed guilt and relief, clinched it. 

Hey, we were there for you, she almost said. We looked for you for two years. We couldn't take on the Big Corporate Evil, but we did what we could do. 

"Howdy," Lindsey said with deep irony. 

"Lindsey," said Angel. Doug. Whatever. 

"Lindsey," Wesley said, very proper. 

"You're going to tell us what's going on," Cordelia said. 

"Doug," Lindsey said, and put his arms around Angel. Cordelia closed her eyes. That was genuine concern. "What were you thinking?" 

"It's hard to--" 

"Vampires," Wesley said. "As you can see, no permanent damage done." His eyes were asking if that was likely to remain true. 

"Look," said Lindsey, "it's been a long flight, airplane food is awful even in first class, I'm not up to home cooking, and I think we should all sit down." 

"You're paying," Cordelia said, determined to squeeze something out of somebody. 

Wesley shot her a look. 

"What the hell," Lindsey said, "we have bigger worries." 

"I like food," Angel said, all cheer again, and led the way. 

* 

There was general squabbling over the choice of appetizers. Cordelia opted out of the argument and decided to be virtuous with soup and salad. She hoped Lindsey's credit card appreciated her sacrifice. 

"The box," Wesley said after they had placed their orders. "Is it real?" 

Angel was resolutely buttering his slice of fresh-baked bread. 

"Long story," Lindsey said, "medium-long version. Holland Manners had a plan. The plan involved bringing Darla back." 

"That's impossible," Wesley said. 

"Why her?" Cordelia said. 

"Who's Darla?" Angel said. 

Lindsey ignored him. "You can probably guess. The method involved would have brought her back as human." 

"Of course," Wesley breathed. Then: "If the Watchers' Council knew--" 

"Do continue," Cordelia said, and snatched the butter from Angel, who didn't protest. 

Lindsey smiled sardonically. "Well, I had a choice. I could go along or I could fail to go along. And then he showed up hell-bent to stop the whole thing. I don't think he knew what it was about. Shit, _I_ barely knew what it was about." 

"Of course," said Cordelia, and fell silent at another look from Wesley. She hated it when he went grim and serious. 

"So I had a plan." 

"A plan," Wesley said, rubbing his temples. 

"It worked," Lindsey said, defensive. "There was one of those swirling vortex winds you get with incantations." 

"Yes," said Cordelia, "we _all_ know." She didn't look at Angel. 

"So I cut off his head." 

They stared at him. 

"And the wind carried the dust into this--this box," Wesley said slowly, "which I presume was not sealed." 

"It had vents," Lindsey said. "They're not stupid. And at that point, I think, the box was made for one, and the prophecy your man took with him tipped the scales in his favor." 

They contemplated that. 

Food arrived, plate by steaming plate. Cordelia started to wish she'd indulged. They ate in silence for a time. Angel's head was lowered again, but he appeared to have kept his appetite. Midway through his filet mignon, he looked up. "Darla was my mother." 

"Yes," Wesley said at the same time that Lindsey said, "No." 

"What, I was adopted or something?" 

"She was your sire," said Wesley. 

His eyes were dark and getting darker. "This has to do with vampires." Darker yet. "I--I was a vampire." The accent had vanished completely. 

Lindsey swore under his breath. 

"How much did he remember when you--when you escaped?" Cordelia said to Lindsey. "How _did_ you escape?" 

"Not much, and you don't want to know," Lindsey said. "That was the worst drive of my life, I'll tell you. There were adjustments to be made." Don't ask, his tone said. 

"Lawyer-talk," said Cordelia, imagining--raving? Frothing at the mouth? Cringing from the sunlight? Trying to strangle the enemy-ally who'd decapitated him? Lindsey was wearing an awfully high collar, at that. 

"Man's got to make a living," Lindsey said. "I do some pro bono work now. That make you happy?" 

"Breathe," Wesley said to Angel. "You do have to breathe, you know." 

"There's too much to remember," said Angel. "There's too much to forget." 

"Your name's whatever you want it to be," Lindsey said, forcefully but not unkindly. 

Cordelia opened her mouth, then shut it. All the pieces were back in place; Angel's memories must have been waiting for enough of a trigger to come rushing back. It didn't please her as much as she had thought it would. 

Angel's hands on the table were young and old and terrible, all at once: hands that remembered killing, and killing, and killing. "So Wolfram and Hart finally figured it out. And they don't want me back here." 

"That seems likely, yes," said Wesley. 

He laughed bitterly. "And I'm what kind of threat to them?" 

"Two vampires," said Cordelia. "Dusty." 

He scoffed. "Out of how many?" He put his face in his hands. "I know. I know." He turned toward Lindsey. "We can't just leave things like this." 

"You didn't have to hightail it without a word to us," Cordelia said. "You didn't have to take him away." 

"I'm right here," said Angel. His eyes were desperate. "I wasn't in. Any. Condition to." 

"I think it was more complicated than that, Cordelia," said Wesley. He wasn't pretending to eat. 

"Cordelia," Angel repeated. "And you're Wesley. 'There was an accident.' Except it wasn't." 

"I'm sorry," said Lindsey. 

"What, sorry that I'm alive? Sorry that you sent me to look at pointillist technique? Sorry that I have a heartbeat?" His voice was getting lower, fiercer. "Sorry for coming after me?" 

"We looked for you!" Cordelia cried. "Except, hello, someone hauled you out of there and never left us word!" 

"What did you expect me to do?" said Lindsey. "Stick around and have Wolfram and Hart after my ass? And _his_ ass? We had to get out of there." 

"We could have gone together," Wesley said quietly. 

Lindsey flung his hands apart. "Well, here's your together. And I'll lay you odds that if you stay here you're going to be the target of every hit squad from L.A. to Sacramento, and if they've tracked you to Notre Dame--" 

"Stop it," said Angel. "Stop it. I don't have to finish out the year there. I don't have to finish out the year anywhere." The hope had returned to his face. "Wes--Wesley. You brought the weapons." 

"I always bring the weapons," said Wesley. 

"Yeah, you should hear him around a metal detector," said Cordelia. 

"We can do this again," said Angel. "We should." But his eyes upon Lindsey were uncertain. 

"I made my choice two years ago," said Lindsey, "when I got tired of changing my mind." 

Angel's hands were shaking. 

Tentatively, the bread basket slid nearer. Angel automatically took another slice. 

"You should go easy on yourself," said Wesley. "The memories--it will take time to integrate them." 

"It's a _long_ drive from here to wherever," said Cordelia. "So _I'll_ drive. Or Mr. Wrong Side of the Road"--Wesley looked pained--"will. Or Mr. Pro Bono will. And also? You have hormones now, so you're allowed to be cranky. Oh, wait. You did before. Oh, quit looking at me like that. We're all grown-ups here." 

"--to wherever?" said Lindsey. 

Angel deflated. "We need a plan." 

"I hear there's a Hellmouth in Pittsburgh," Cordelia said. 

Lindsey stared at her, then threw back his head and laughed. "Let's do it." 

* 

So the road trip involved frequent arguments, missed exits, snores and screaming nightmares, getting kicked out of sleazy motels, endless wrinkles in her clothes, greasy hamburgers at every rest stop, and some of the most disturbing backseat-game sketches she'd ever seen in her life. 

The hell with FedEx. She'd do it again. 


End file.
